


Though Waiting So Be Hell

by echolalaphile, MilesHibernus



Series: Journeys End [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: After the executions, Gen, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echolalaphile/pseuds/echolalaphile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: One of them had to get to that bench first.





	Though Waiting So Be Hell

**Author's Note:**

> You can use either this or _Patience, Tame to Sufferance_ as the beginning of the series, they both work.  
> thanks, as always, to elroi for the beta.

Crowley had to grant Gabriel a single grudging point for the fact that the archangel had thrown his arms out to shield his underlings from the gout of flame. One point wasn’t going to do the bastard any good if Crowley ever ended up behind him in a dark alley, of course.

He stood quietly in the wake of Uriel’s stunned question, letting the hellfire tick over his skin like a shower on the very edge of too hot to bear until Gabriel had _almost_ gathered enough wit to speak, and then held out his hands like Aziraphale proffering the empty hat that was about to produce a dove. The hellfire swirled in and sank into his skin1, and he closed his eyes for a moment as if savoring the last bite of _crêpes Suzette_. When he opened them, the three angels were still in their defensive huddle, watching him with appalled terror.

He’d thought a bit about how Aziraphale would phrase this. “I think it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in future,” he said, making eye contact with all three in turn. “Don’t you?” 

Sandalphon and Uriel turned their wide eyes to Gabriel, who stuttered, “Yes. I...yes, sure.”

“The demon too,” said Crowley, idly straightening his shirt-cuffs. ‘Aziraphale’ could get away with this and Crowley wasn’t above adding a little insurance for himself. “Appalling creature of course, but he’s been very useful and I wouldn’t like to seem churlish.”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Gabriel. “Whatever, just. Just _go_.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on an escort,” said Crowley sweetly. “I would hate for you to worry about me getting up to any mischief on my way out.” The plain truth was that he wasn’t sure he could _find_ the way out on his own. Heaven wasn’t...what it had been when he was last here.

All three of them accompanied him, which meant Gabriel got another point2 for not delegating it. The lift was very much like the one Crowley was used to in Hell, except better lit and with no ominous stains. Even the control for selecting a destination worked the same way. Crowley couldn’t resist giving the angels a little wave as the doors slid closed. Sandalphon flinched, which was extremely satisfying.

The lift deposited him in the lobby of an office building only a few minutes’ walk from the park, and Crowley resisted the urge to miracle himself the rest of the way there. Aziraphale would walk, so Crowley walked, spine straight and hands at his sides rather than shoved into his pockets. In Aziraphale’s ridiculous layers it was easy to remember not to saunter, but he normally walked faster than the angel did, so he forcibly slowed himself. He rounded the last corner and started across the street, paying very little attention to the passing traffic.

The bench was empty.

He made sure his face didn’t change from the pleasant almost-smile that was Aziraphale’s default expression. It took only a few seconds to cross the grass3 and Crowley sat, carefully upright, and then thought _Well bless it._4 He’d sat on the left, his usual position, instead of on the right as Aziraphale would have done. It wasn’t that he thought someone watching would pick up on that detail—it was fairly clear that Heaven and Hell had paid them only enough attention to have a general idea of how they usually behaved—but it was still a mistake and even tiny mistakes could snowball.

Reminded, Crowley cast his senses out, searching for unfriendly eyes. There was nothing.

It wasn’t surprising that he’d made it back first. Heaven had wanted Aziraphale dead quickly and quietly; wouldn’t do to have any other angels getting _Ideas_. Hell would want more of a spectacle, might even dole out a bit of a kicking before they really got down to business. They were all for disobedience in theory and in the abstract, but _specific_ instances of not following orders were frowned upon and Somebody knew Crowley’d racked up plenty of those in the last few days.

It wouldn’t rise to the level of torture. Of course it wouldn’t. He was confident of that or he’d never have let Aziraphale go, no matter what Mistress Nutter had seen. He’d _promised_ , even in the face of Aziraphale’s too-earnest assurances that it didn’t matter, this was what they had to do so of course they’d do it. It was just that his imagination wouldn’t stop presenting him with pictures.

Crowley assiduously avoided the parts of Hell that were home to the damned souls. But he’d picked up more than enough glimpses over the centuries to have a very good idea of what the possibilities were. When on a plane that molded itself to the service of punishment, dealing with bodies that literally _could not_ die made even Hell’s limited creativity more than sufficient.

They could torment Aziraphale for days before attempting to execute him. Years. They might not try to kill him at all, might simply open a pit and drop him into it. Demons aren’t much for imagination but Crowley suspected Dagon of having enough of a clue to understand that suffering was worse than oblivion.

And here Crowley was, perfectly hale and hearty, having gotten off scot-free. Sandalphon and Uriel hadn’t been gentle with him, but they hadn’t set out to cause pain either.

It was oddly comforting to think that if Aziraphale _were_ tortured, he’d slip, and if he slipped they’d realise the trick and come back for Crowley after all. At least he wouldn’t have to live long knowing he’d sent the angel to his excruciating death. But then... _no. Oh no._

A little boy, passing the bench, tugged on his mother’s hand. “Why is that man sad?” he asked, in a piercing whisper.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she said, and hurried them on. Crowley didn’t notice. It had just occurred to him that Hell could easily kill Aziraphale _by accident._

The powers that be kept hellfire out of the offices; making lives miserable with leaks and bad lighting was one thing but having to constantly re-create burnt paperwork was too likely to lead to errors. But when all was said and done it _was_ Hell, and there were parts of it in flames, and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Aziraphale would have to pass through one of those parts. And it wouldn’t be in character for a demon to shy away from hellfire, would it? Aziraphale had harbored theatrical ambitions since he’d first laid eyes on a _deus ex machina;_ he would cut it too close, and that would be the end of him.

Crowley’s fingers, interlaced primly in his lap, tightened on each other. He searched for spies again. Nothing.

Crowley couldn’t hope to get into Hell undetected through the main entrance, and a frontal assault wasn’t his style anyway. But he hadn’t checked on any of the shifting _un_ official portals in centuries; didn’t know where they came out. It wouldn’t do him much good to avoid the front door if he ended up in one of the hellhound pens instead.

Well. He’d worry about that when it happened. He was sure he could get far enough in to find Aziraphale, wherever they’d stashed him, and then there’d be two of them and they could get back out. Surely they could. And if the angel were already—gone, it would be easy enough to just not fight. No one would think to draw it out, not when they realised what had happened; it would hurt a lot, but not for very long.

The ball of tension in his chest, the one that pitched him over into hysterics5 every six or seven decades, got a little larger and a little tighter.

The question was how long to wait. On the one hand, demons weren’t much different from humans in that they couldn’t maintain vigilance forever. The longer it went without anything happening, the less prepared they’d be when it did.

On the other hand, every second Crowley waited was another second Aziraphale suffered, and he wasn’t sure how long he could take that. The sun was past zenith already. A few hours was less than an eyeblink in the context of their lives, but Crowley felt like it had been forever, like he’d been sitting on this bench _perfectly fine_ , while Aziraphale could be hurting, dying, dead, since the Beginning. He closed his eyes. It would complicate the getting back out part if Crowley had to stop and _kill_ anyone who’d laid an unkind finger on the angel, but he was beginning to not care. He’d kill them all just to make his _point._

The bench creaked as someone dropped onto it. Crowley’s eyes snapped open and he turned to snarl.

His own face, complete with dark glasses and a bit of a smirk, looked back at him. “Sorry I’m late, angel,” Aziraphale drawled, draping himself elaborately across the seat. “Traffic, you know how it is.” 

Crowley absolutely _could not_ spare the resources to deal with being addressed as ‘angel’. Instead he smiled, and said, “Think nothing of it, dear boy. I’ve never minded waiting for you.” 

Aziraphale smiled back. Then he shifted uncomfortably, sighed, and drew himself up, straight-backed. Amidst his own clangorous thoughts, Crowley made a mental note that demonic physiology6 did not lend itself readily to good posture. He sighed in turn, tilted his head back, and let himself relax, slumping. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, probably coming to a similar conclusion with regard to angelic bodies7 and sprawling.

For a long moment they sat there silently.

“How was it?” asked Crowley finally.

“It was Hell. You know how it is.” Aziraphale paused. “I’d have done a thousand times worse to keep you safe.”

Dozens of replies crowded Crowley’s throat, and he pushed them all down savagely. Any one of them would crack him wide open, and he was _blessed_ if he’d break down right here in front of God, Satan, and everybody. He looked away, jaw tight, and fortunately Aziraphale took the hint and went on.

“And how was Heaven?”

“You know how it is,” said Crowley, as calmly as he could manage. “They tried to kill you, angel.” 

“We knew they would, my dear,” returned Aziraphale.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He took a breath he didn’t need, let it out slowly. “Do you think they’ll leave us alone now?”

“At a guess, they’ll pretend it never happened.”

Crowley nodded and made a sound of agreement, and looked out over the park.

“Right, anyone looking?”

Crowley checked, one more time. “Nobody. Right.” He offered his hand, pleased it wasn't shaking. “Swap back then?”

Aziraphale took it.

**Author's Note:**

> 1Absorbing the fire did a lot to replenish the reserves he’d depleted over the last few days. Stopping time takes _effort_.back
> 
> 2Two was still not going to save him. He had tried to _kill Aziraphale_. The number of points it took to overcome that was not one Crowley had ever attempted to calculate.back
> 
> 3It was damp from a brief rain earlier. Crowley barely noticed and Aziraphale’s shoes stayed perfectly dry.back
> 
> 4 Interestingly, this was a phrase that both sides used the same way to mean the same thing. It’s just one side thought they were avoiding a curse, while the other knew very well just how cursed such an imperative could make things.back
> 
> 5Crowley didn’t like the etymology of that word and considered it another instance of humanity’s appalling talent for giving women the short end of the stick, but his periodic bouts of crying certainly felt like _something_ had broken loose inside him.back
> 
> 6Or at least Crowley’s.back
> 
> 7Or at least Aziraphale’s.back


End file.
